A Mouthful of Interludes
by forlornwriter
Summary: Oneshot. Incest, violence, and character death. Charlie/India. She doesn't pull the trigger, and travelling to New York alongside her uncle sounds wonderful indeed. Stoker's ending reimagined.


**A MOUTHFUL OF INTERLUDES** | _ONESHOT_

Uncle Charlie calls for her, his voice strained yet filled with an exhilaration that she knows all too well. An exhilaration that Uncle Charlie had helped her acknowledge and embrace. With some deliberation, she finally brings herself to stand up from the piano seat, skirt ruffling and saddle shoes scuffing against the steps of the staircase. She listens intently to the sound, tries to imagine the clicks of heels instead, and finds that she likes that thought very much indeed.

When she nears the room, she can hear her mother choking, and when she stands at the mouth of the entrance, she can see it as well. Uncle Charlie is straddling her mother and she is lying on her stomach, hands trembling as they grip in vain for purchase against hardwood, for any minuscule means of escape. Her father had suggested carpeting, India remembers, but her mother had vehemently refused it. She wonders if she now wishes that she hadn't.

India stares at her mother, deep into her red eyes. She looks like a wreck; her hair askew, tears creating thin streams down her palid cheeks, lipstick that is always so impeccably put on smeared around her mouth. They hold eye contact, her mother's wide and pleading while India's stay demure and half-lidded. She feels no pleasure from this, no gratification, not like how it had been when Whip had been lying atop of her, struggling futilely with tear-filled, frantic eyes. But it must be done all the same.

The girl continues to stare at her mother, taking the sight of her in without any emotion present on her face. There isn't a canopy of emotions inside of her, either. There is no sadness, no remorse, not even any anger. She feels tranquil. The tighter the leather belt is pulled, the more serene she becomes.

India doesn't close her eyes when her mother's neck is broken, pulled impossibly back. She continues to stare, but her gaze goes from her mother's neck to the belt to ivory fingers, travelling up previously tensed arms to a languid, pleased smile. Her eyes meet Uncle Charlie's then, which are swimming with an emotion she can't name.

His smile widens. One hand releases the belt so it falls away from the broken neck. But the mark is still there, as if the belt had never been removed. As if it is still there, fastened tightly. Harshly, Uncle Charlie lets the body go, and it hits the hardwood floor with a loud noise. India doesn't flinch; her eyes only travel down to the lifeless figure who had once tried to love her, or at least pretended as if she tried. There is no satisfaction. Only calm.

Uncle Charlie and India later move the body to the biggest room in the house, where her parents used to sleep. They gently place it atop the immaculate bed, causing creases and staining the pristine white a bright, brilliant red.

"You're going to love New York, India," Uncle Charlie says light-heartedly as they stare at the body, limbs askew and looking unnatural. Neither of them move to fix the problem.

Afterwards, Uncle Charlie grabs their bags and takes them to his car. The engine revs up a moment later. India stares for a while longer at the body, then allows her eyes to travel along the room. There is nothing of worth in there; no important pictures or memories or mementos. Her mother had previously burnt them all in the backyard-she had watched it all from a window, Uncle Charlie standing behind with a hand on the curve of her shoulder. They had later gone and played piano together, Uncle Charlie filling the silence whereas India listened and spoke up only when she felt the need to.

A moment or two passes. The car horn blares. Uncle Charlie must be getting impatient, which is amusing to think considering that he has waited eighteen years for her. India curls her lip up at the irony, but turns and exits the room all the same. Her saddle shoes scuff the floors, the staircase, all the way to the front door. She pauses, bends down, and begins to untie them. They are dirty from use, unfit for her to wear now that she is no longer India Stoker, a shy, misunderstood teenage girl. Now, she is something _more_, but most importantly, she is a woman. An adult.

The shoes come off without much of a preamble, toes flexing once they have escaped their confines. And then they are entering yet another confine, though this one less restricting and more free. India slips her feet into the heels Uncle Charlie had gotten for her, had presented her so lovingly, and they fit as perfectly as they had before. Somehow, he seems to always know what size to get her, every single birthday starting from her fifth.

The car horn's cry echoes shrilly through the open door. India pushes the saddle shoes to the side and stalks out of the house, confidence escalating with every click she hears resonate from her heels. She leaves without a single glance back to the life she is leaving behind. There is nothing to miss. Not anymore.

Uncle Charlie is sitting in the car when she exits the house, not looking aggravated or impatient whatsoever - instead, his face is composed and cheerful. He smiles at her. "Ready to go?" he asks. He's surprisingly enough sitting in the passenger's seat. Having left the driver's seat for her.

India makes her way to the side of the car, staring at him emotionlessly. "I don't know how to drive," she informs him. She's only eighteen, after all. She doesn't have a driver's licence nor has her father ever tried to get her behind the wheel.

He keeps on smiling, however, looking unperturbed about this information. "I'll teach you," is all he says, and then he motions for her to get in. India obliges, her eyes not missing the gun that rests near Uncle Charlie's feet. Her hunting rifle. She had put it next to her bag previously, adamant on not leaving it behind. She hadn't missed the way his eyes had darkened at the sight of her holding the gun previously, hefting its weight with one hand while the other held the strap of her bag.

Once she's sitting, the car door closed, and her seatbelt is strapped across her shoulder, Uncle Charlie moves closer. His head is near her shoulder, breath ghosting along her collarbone. She likes his presence there, she finds. His hand grasps her own, the suddenness of the movement causing her to flinch, and guides it atop what she believes is the gear stick. His touch is firm, not gentle, and while she loathes being touched, she doesn't mind it when Uncle Charlie does it. So she allows him to curl their fingers over the gear shift, pointing out every letter illuminated along the side of it and explaining what they stand for and what they do. It sounds simple enough.

Then his hand leaves her own and ghosts along her thigh, explaining to her the significance of the pedals there that remind her of the piano they are soon going to leave behind, the one where they had done their duet and she had found release for the first time. India realizes that she will miss the cool keys, the twang of the strings, the euphoria she feels whenever she plays. Maybe they can buy a piano in New York, she thinks, as cool fingers press against the naked skin of her thigh. She wants the hand to move higher up her skirt, to cup her where she needs it the most, but instead they stay in place, thumb running along the skin there languidly as Uncle Charlie tells her about the steering wheel next.

"And that's it," he finishes quietly. India slowly turns her head towards him, his nose pressing against her cheek due to the movement, and isn't quite sure what she's doing exactly - does she want to look at him? Does she want to kiss him? She doesn't find out what she might've done next had her head turned all the way, as Uncle Charlie moves away. His hand lingers on her thigh before slipping off and returning to his lap, the other he had curled around the back of her seat joining it. India finds herself disgruntled by this, but keeps the irritation off of her face and instead watches him closely.

"Do you think you can drive now, India?"

She nods her head once, confident. "Yes," she says. She ignores the feeling of satisfaction that blooms in her chest when Uncle Charlie smiles, looking pleased.

"Good," he says. "Let's go, then."

India nods, moves the gear shift into reverse, and slowly brings the car out of the driveway. Her hand feels sure on the shift, her other tight on the steering wheel, and it's impossible for her to forget how her uncle's had felt on her own. She can still feel the heat on his palm on her thigh, which makes her unconsciously rub her thighs together, before they fall open once more so she can drive properly.

After some thought, she speeds up, and though Uncle Charlie looks at her curiously, he doesn't question her on her actions. She's glad, because she isn't in the mood to explain.

Sure enough, she sees a police car in the front view mirror, seconds before its siren begins to blare. Uncle Charlie bristles at the sound, looking uncharacteristically stoic, before his face relaxes and his shoulders loosen from their previously tensed position. India remains calm throughout, stopping the car on the side of the road and waiting patiently for the Sheriff to exit his car and walk to hers. She isn't disappointed.

"In a hurry, you two?" he questions, looking delighted at the sight of them. No doubt having realized by now that they play a bigger role in Whip's disappearance than they are letting on. Finding them trying to leave Baltimore most likely incriminates them further, she knows.

India remains quiet, staring silently at him, whereas Uncle Charlie chuckles light-heartedly. "Not really a hurry," he says, thinking quickly on his feet. "We're just going on a little vacation. India here wants a change of scenery, and her mother agreed that it would be best. So we're going away for a bit."

"Do you know how fast she was going?" the Sheriff points out, eyebrow raised.

Uncle Charlie doesn't looked the slightest bit perturbed. "Well, you know, kids these days," he jokes, chuckling. Even though she knows he doesn't mean it, India bristles all the same. She is no longer a 'kid'.

"I know I was over the speed limit," she says quietly, before either of them can say anything else. Both of them hear her just fine. Uncle Charlie looks a bit confused; the Sheriff on the other hand curious by the words. He plants his hands against the car and leans in towards her, tilting his head. From the corner of her eye, India can see Uncle Charlie's hands clenching into fists.

"So why were you going over the limit?" the Sheriff asks, oblivious to her uncle's ire.

She finally makes eye contact with him, her lips widening into a sweet smile. "To get your attention." Without a beat, her hand grabs the shears that Uncle Charlie had hidden in between their seats and plunges it deep into the Sheriff's neck.

The man stumbles back with wide, shocked eyes, blood spurting every which way and staining his uniform. The stains from the blood won't come out later, India knows from experience; no matter how many times it's put through the washer. She watches him almost boredly, smile stuck grotesquely on her face, and she eventually exits the car, closing the door behind her. It barely makes a sound, but it's not like there are many around to hear anyway.

Meanwhile, the Sheriff is unable to think properly with garden shears having penetrated him and his wound leaking a copious amount of blood, running into a field of tall grass instead of trying to get into his car and drive away. India supposes he wouldn't be able to drive properly with his wound, especially due to the blood loss. And it's be easier for her to chase him down to the field, anyway, so she is glad that he didn't make a run for his vehicle.

For a while, India only watches him, hands in the pockets of her skirt. Her mother's blouse ruffles in the wind, her hair blowing away from her face with a life of its own, and the comforting feel of her father's leather belt against her forearms makes her feel much more powerful, much more at ease with the world and especially herself. Then there is a cool hand pressing against her shoulder, Uncle Charlie stepping up to stand next to her moments later. And _this_, standing side by side with the man who knows well than most, makes her feel invincible.

They stare at the struggling Sheriff, at the blood that leaves him and coats stems and flowers a vibrant red. It looks almost like paint from where she stands, she finds. Then, she is pivoting on a foot to walk towards the car, her high heels clicking away. She leans over, just barely managing to grasp the gun lying on the floor of the passenger seat, and holds it delicately in one hand as she turns and makes her way back towards Uncle Charlie. He is standing immobile, watching her with darkened blue eyes and a dangerous grin that makes her core feel warm. She maintains eye contact as she approaches him, then glances towards the Sheriff and strides into the field. It's easy for her to figure out where he is, as the blood and crudely made path through the greenery is not difficult to make out. He isn't far away, certainly within shooting distance.

India brings up the rifle, resting the butt of it on her shoulder, and squints one eye as she looks through the scope. She can see every crease, every stain on the Sheriff's uniform. With ease, she manages to zero in on his head, even as it bobbles up and down with every move he makes, struggling to survive. A wounded animal that she can finish off with a flex of her finger. But India waits for the right moment to shoot, teeth ensnaring her bottom lip, until her wait finally comes to an end and she pulls the trigger. The bullet cleanly enters the Sheriff's head, goes through his brain, and kills him instantly. He flops to the ground, dead.

Pleased, she brings down the rifle and stares at the blob that is the Sheriff. She can just barely make him out without the help of the scope, but this doesn't matter. Her job is done, and now it's time to go safely to New York with her uncle by her side.

The dark-haired woman turns, hair blowing in the wind, and locks eyes with Uncle Charlie. He looks proud, his hands pressing into the pockets of his pants as he watches her make her way to him. He continues to watch, grinning, until she is next to him once more, and then one arm leaves a pocket to wrap around her. The skin of palm presses against her warm bicep, making her shiver and liquid pool between her legs.

"Good thinking, India," he praises, then leaves her to walk around the car and enter the passenger seat. India goes behind the wheel, closing the door behind her, and passes her rifle to her uncle. The sight of him holding it arouses her, though she can't help feel a bit protective of the weapon at the same time. The feeling doesn't last long, however, as Uncle Charlie hides it from sight under his seat and intertwines his hands in his lap.

Her gaze lingers there until she looks ahead and brings the car out of parking. The car purrs, and when she presses her foot against the gas pedal, they are off in the direction of New York and a new beginning.

Uncle Charlie leans over and turns on the radio, a crescendo filling the companionable silence, and she relaxes in her seat as she smoothly navigates them far away from the road devoid of any life.

With this, India Stoker is reborn.

_"I became the colour,_  
_ I became the daughter and the son..."_

* * *

**forlornwriter:** _So I just recently watched _Stoker_ after having put it off for so long, and gosh, I wish I had watched it before. It's really poignant and has amazing cinematography and full of metaphors and the like, some or most of which I'm sure went right over my head. But still I wanted to write something for it, especially since there aren't many stories for this lovely movie, which surprises me. So I hope you enjoyed this and are now thinking of writing something yourself?_

_Although, while I love the ending of the movie, I couldn't help but feel disheartened by the fact that Charlie was killed. Charlie and India have such amazing chemistry, so I had to change up the ending to have him live in the end instead, even if it is no doubt out of character for India to let him live. Still, I like to imagine this being somewhat AU, as in this oneshot, India becomes exactly what Richard had feared and tried to prevent: just like his brother Charlie._

_Anywhom, thank you for reading, and please do review and/or favourite!_


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